


A Reckless Moment

by reveling_in_mayhem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, First Kiss, M/M, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 22:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20181574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveling_in_mayhem/pseuds/reveling_in_mayhem
Summary: John stepped closer. Far closer than he should in an effort to maintain the safety of his own sensibilities, but he was suddenly feeling reckless. It wasn’t bravery that was pushing him forward, but fear. Fear that he would miss this chance, and he was tired of missing chances.





	A Reckless Moment

Those piercing eyes looked steadily at him as he asked, “Why? Why does it matter to you? Why is it so important?” 

It was a simple question. True, it was a question to a question, but it wasn’t exactly uncalled for. John’s question had come out of the blue and was definitely a personal one. In all honesty, he hadn’t even expected a response at all. 

“It doesn’t. It’s not. It’s fine,” he stammered. He knew he was speaking too quickly as soon as he opened his mouth. Why had he asked? He thought he knew the answer, but the answer wasn’t important because it wouldn’t change anything. The man was married to his work, as he had very clearly stated on the second day of their acquaintance. True, there were times when he seemed to be not quite true, but John was sure it was only his own fanciful imagination reading into those moments when their eyes seemed to linger just a hint beyond what was normal, or the distance between their two physical bodies a touch too close. But then, when had their relationship ever been constricted into the confines of normal? They were both broken men that relied on the dangerous, addictive adrenaline of murder, dark alley chases, and the thrill of the game. Normal wasn’t a parameter of their relationship.

Earlier that evening they had been sitting inside NSY drinking cups of coffee from borrowed mugs as they gave statements to DI Lestrade about the string of kidnapping cases that Sherlock had brilliantly solved earlier by discovering the dirt caked under the pinky nail of one of the victims consisted of minerals found only on the east side of the river. They had gone to the river and had managed to actually stumble upon the kidnapper. This led to a chase and swim through the muddy water in the afternoon. John could feel his clothes drying and tightening uncomfortably as they sat and talked. Lestrade eventually took pity on them and sent them home with instructions to come back tomorrow to finish their statement.

Once in their flat, John had declared that he was going to take a shower. He left Sherlock with strict instructions to not sit down before changing out of his dirty clothes. He really didn’t want to have to clean the sofa. 

Standing in the bathroom he changed out of his filthy jeans (honestly, HOW was there so much mud caked into the fabric?) and then pulled off his shirt while waiting for the shower to warm up. Stepping into the tub and under the now just-below-boiling cascade of water, he pulled the curtain closed and began to rinse all the muck out of his hair and off his body. The hot water sluicing over his head and skin felt wonderful after their dive into the Thames and up the muddy banks chasing after their suspect. He felt his tired muscles relaxing under the stream and breathed in the humid air. After a few moments of resting there, he grabbed his soap and scrubbed and washed his body and hair before turning off the tap. He didn’t want to waste all the hot water. Grabbing a towel, he had patted himself dry and quickly rubbed the water from his hair before throwing on his robe and heading back into the living room. 

A quick glance didn’t reveal Sherlock, so John turned to head up the stairs to his room and get changed. He pulled on an old gray shirt and pajama bottoms before he heard the clack and crank of the old pipes as Sherlock turned on the water for his own shower. John headed down to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle to make tea. He was tired, but the shower had relaxed him and he wanted to sit and read by the fire before turning in. He glanced up as he heard the bathroom door open and saw Sherlock emerge wrapped in his blue silk dressing gown with his dark curls fluffed up in a halo from the quick towel dry he must have had. 

Sherlock saw his glance. “Tea?” 

“Yes,” John answered, turning back to the open book balanced on his knee. “Did you want some?” He knew the answer. Asked it anyway. 

“Yes,” came the smooth baritone reply.

“It’s waiting for you in the kitchen,” he replied, having already made him a cup before he sat down. He might not be a genius, but he knew his flatmate. At least, he knew his tea preferences and his apparent requirement that John be the one to make it. He grinned down into his own cup when he heard Sherlock’s soft “hmm” of acknowledgement. 

John absently sipped at his tea as he let his eyes wander after his flatmate. He silently admired the head of dark curls, the curve of his narrow waist, the long lean legs. He had long ago accepted that his attraction to the enigmatic man was something that he couldn’t ignore. He tried his best, though. Best not to think of it. No point in daydreaming about impossible things. Unfortunately, he was daydreaming. What would happen? What if I did just stand up, walk over, sink my hands into those curls and pull him down to me? What if I pushed my body against his? What if I...

“John?”

John snapped his eyes up to his flatmate, abruptly aware that his imagination had wandered rather than he intended, and oh God, where had he been looking? Bloody hell, that genius detective has probably just deduced exactly what I was thinking about. He felt the rising heat of blood into his neck and cheeks, undoubtedly doing a fabulous job of flushing his face and further incriminating him. 

“Sherlock?” Thank God his voice at least came out clear. He tried to clear his face of any possible indication of guilt.

“What were you thinking about?” Sherlock was looking at him oddly. 

Or, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it was John’s guilty conscience. Well, not guilty. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Nothing to be guilty about, really. It’s not like it’s a crime to fantasize about your best friend. John gave his head a small shake. Definitely needed to change the trajectory of those thoughts. 

“Nothing in particular. Just daydreaming, I suppose.” Perfect. Non-incriminating answer delivered in a casual tone of voice.

“What exactly are you daydreaming about while staring at my arse?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow as he delivered his question while crossing over to settle himself in his chair across from him.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

Well, now he knew where he had been staring. Honestly, I can’t be blamed for daydreaming while staring at that. He looked Sherlock in the eyes. Avoiding eye contact would too obvious. 

“Sherlock, have you ever been in a relationship? That wasn’t for a case I mean.” 

John blinked. Why on earth had he asked that? That wasn’t where he meant this conversation to go at all.

“Why?”

“I was just curious.”

“That’s a strange thing to be curious about.”

“Is it? I know how you take your tea, your preferred laundry detergent, your favorite brand of violin strings. You’re my best friend, and I know a lot about you, but I don’t know that. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“John. I know all of those same things about you, minus the violin, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t see the need to ask you personal questions.”

John graced him with an incredulous look. “Well of course you don’t bloody need to ask, you know. You probably know how many people I’ve ever kissed, the number of relationships, and when I last shagged someone. You probably know the last time I wanked too.”

“Three days ago, obviously. You haven’t had time during this case and you’re always a bit more...” he trailed off, suddenly seeming to realize what he was saying. 

John raised both eyebrows and gave a little smirk while shaking his head. “One more deduction than you intended?”

“So it would seem.” Sherlock surreptitiously cleared his throat before taking a sip of the tea John had made him. Reminded of the mug in his own hand, John took a sip as well. 

“You haven’t answered the question, Sherlock.”

“Why? Why does it matter to you? Why is it so important?” Those color-shifting eyes stared into his intently and John panicked. 

“It doesn’t. It’s not. It’s fine.”

“Then why do you insist on asking every couple weeks?”

“I haven’t asked you that before!”

“Perhaps not in those words, but it’s been something along those lines for weeks. Personal questions asked out of nowhere for seemingly no reason. What exactly do you want to know, John?”

John glanced down and took a sip of his tea as he thought how best to answer that question. What did he want to know, exactly? And why?

He opted for a half-truth. “I don’t know.”

The man in front of him barely bit back an irritated sigh. “Then please stop asking these tedious questions.”

John stretched and crossed his legs out in front of him, angling his feet just inches away from Sherlock’s. “I know you don’t like talking about these kinds of things,” he began, avoiding Sherlock’s eye, “and we both know I definitely don’t. It’s been on my mind a lot lately, though. After everything with Mary...”he trailed off, shaking his head. 

Mary. That had been a disaster. He was still reeling from most of it. He had thought he loved her, was happy to be her husband, and expecting a baby no less! Then she shot Sherlock. It all unraveled after that. It was fake. All of it. No such person as Mary, no marriage, and no baby. Honestly, finding out the baby had been fake hurt him more than he expected. Though he had never particularly wanted to be a father, finding out he would be and then having it taken away was painful. So when it all came out, he left. He showed up at 221b with a suitcase and never looked back. This was home. It was always his home. 

“Mary wasn’t your fault, John.”

John looked down at his hand, not surprised to find it clenching into a fist, and forced himself to relax it. “Yes, she was. I let her in, let her get close, and then she went after the one person in this world who means more to me than anyone else.”

Sherlock sat very still as John spoke. He could feel his eyes focus on him with singular purpose. “John...”

John gave a small smile, and looked up at him. “I know. Sentiment. It does seem to be my undoing. Perhaps if I weren’t so suspect to it I could have avoided that whole situation.” Perhaps I could have avoided this one as well.

“John, you know I hold you in highest regard,” Sherlock began, but John stopped him.

“Did you mean what you said at my wedding? During your speech?”

Sherlock looked down into his lap for a moment before raising his eyes again. He didn’t speak a word, but John could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing.

“You said you loved me most in the world.” John gazed down into the remains of his tea. He couldn’t bring himself to look into his friend’s eyes. 

He heard the creak of the leather as Sherlock shifted in his chair. He still couldn’t look up. He heard his friend take a breath, let it out. He waited for...something. Anything, really. But moments passed, and nothing happened. He closed his book and placed it on the arm of his chair, finished his tea, stood up, and crossed over to the kitchen without once looking at Sherlock. He rinsed his mug out at the sink and put it out to dry. He stood quietly at the sink for a minute, then went back and saw Sherlock was exactly as he left him. John took a breath, then let it out with a sigh and a small quirk of his lips. Not quite a smile, but it was all he could summon at the moment.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

He turned and walked up the staircase to his room, ignoring the twinge in his chest. Ignoring those brilliantly colored eyes that he could feel on him as he walked away.

—

The next morning, John dressed himself in jeans and a pale blue jumper before heading down to get a start on making tea and breakfast. His sleep hadn’t exactly been restful, but at least he wasn’t scheduled to work at the clinic today. He was surprised to see Sherlock sitting at the table in front of his microscope, examining something or other. He was dressed in his usual uniform of trousers and crisp button down shirt, and his hair was freshly styled. John had heard him playing his violin long after he himself had gone up to bed. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“A few hours,” Sherlock answered without even glancing up. 

“I heard you playing last night. I didn’t recognize it,” John replied as he filled the kettle with water and flicked it on for tea. He got some toast started as he waited for the water to heat up. 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before replying, “I was composing.”

“It sounded lovely. You should put it on YouTube or something. Make yourself famous. Well, more famous.” John could feel the eye roll being directed at him.

“John,” Sherlock scoffed, “I don’t want to be famous now. It’s rather bad for business to be easily recognized.” 

“Oh, right. Well, I suppose that could be an issue,” John deadpanned. He prepared two cups of tea and spread jam on two slices of toast. He put a cup and plate down beside Sherlock. “Breakfast.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock leaned up from his microscope, ignored the toast, and took a sip of the tea. 

“Sherlock.”

“John?”

“Eat the toast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

John crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow without taking his eyes away from Sherlock. Sherlock sighed dramatically, picked up the toast, and took the smallest bite possible. 

“Happy?”

“I’m not unhappy,” John quipped. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to his microscope, but John saw the small quirk of his lips that he couldn’t hide. “Anything on today?” 

“Nothing on the website or email,” Sherlock answered. “I have these samples to go through, but there’s no rush. Was there something you wanted to do today?”

“Probably should head to the shop at some point. Milk is low, and we could use some actual food.” 

“Give me a moment to set up this next experiment and I’ll join you.”

John stopped in the middle of putting on his shoes, looking up at Sherlock. “You want to go to the shop with me?” He couldn’t help the slight incredulous inflection in his voice. Sherlock never went to the shop for something as mundane as milk and vegetables.

“I wouldn’t tell you to wait if I didn’t want to,” Sherlock replied with exasperation tinging his words. 

“Ok, well, ok,” John stuttered, becoming somewhat suspicious of Sherlock’s sudden desire to engage in domestic endeavors. He watched as Sherlock set up another slide, then rose from his seat, crossed the room and brushed past him. 

“Coming?” Sherlock questioned as he grabbed his coat off the back of his armchair. 

“Yeah, right behind you.” John gave himself a mental shake and grabbed his coat, pushing his arms through the sleeves as he followed Sherlock down the stairs. 

The closest grocery was several blocks away, but since it was a rather nice day without much cloud coverage, they decided to walk. They turned and headed down the sidewalk together, walking with the easy silence of companions that didn’t need to fill every moment with sound. 

What was making the easy silence filled with tension was how often Sherlock seemed to accidentally brush his hand or arm against John as they walked. It didn’t stop once they made it to the store, either. Sherlock seemed to be finding every possible excuse to step closer, lay a hand upon, graze an arm against, and once, found a reason to brush his fingers through John’s hair (“You haven’t had a haircut in 4 months, it’s getting long”), as he debated the virtues of strawberry jam versus orange marmalade. 

John felt as tightly wound as a coil, a Jack in the Box just waiting for the latch to come undone and for him to spring out into action. What action, he was unsure, but he was becoming positive that whatever action he took would be irreversible. 

They made it back into their flat without incident, and John did what John did best. He flicked the kettle on to make tea, then started putting the groceries away in their small kitchen. Sherlock stepped up behind him, without regard for personal space, grabbing the tea and putting it on the counter. John could feel the warmth of his detective radiating from behind him and barely managed to bite back a gasp. He felt his heart jump as Sherlock briefly rested his hand on his shoulder, his long fingers giving a gentle squeeze before releasing. He felt him turn, presumably to check on his experiment. 

John turned around and found Sherlock turning back to him at the same time, his mouth opening as if to speak, but then shut as he saw John has turned. They were closer than they had any reason to be, despite the size of the kitchen they stood in. 

John stepped closer. Far closer than he should in an effort to maintain the safety of his own sensibilities, but he was suddenly feeling reckless. It wasn’t bravery that was pushing him forward, but fear. Fear that he would miss this chance, and he was tired of missing chances. He kept his eyes locked on Sherlock’s, wondered if he was imagining the flicker of anticipation and excitement in that kaleidoscope gaze, and slowly reached his both hands up to rest gently on his face, his thumbs gently grazing his cheekbones. Heard the sharp intake of breath. He paused for a moment that lasted an eternity, giving the other man a chance to pull away, to reject, before smoothly pulling him down and finally, finally, bringing their mouths together. Sherlock’s lips were soft and warm between his, and John felt the breath leave his flatmates body. He pulled back while opening his eyes. Sherlock’s own eyes were still closed and John could almost see the thoughts whirling through his mind. He let the fingers of his left hand pull gently through the curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck before letting both hands drop to his sides and took a half step back. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at him, his face going through a series of expressions and emotions too fast for John to discern. 

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done...,” John was cut off as Sherlock surged forward, cupping John’s face with his hands, bringing them back together. John sighed as he melted into the kiss, his hands coming to rest on Sherlock’s waist. He was completely surrounded by the other man. His senses on overdrive. The taste of sugar from Sherlock’s tea on his lips, the gentle pressure of his hands upon his face, the scent of his ridiculously expensive aftershave, and underneath, the scent that was uniquely Sherlock. He smelled of home. Sherlock’s lips parted against his, and his tongue tentatively delved into his mouth, wanting to taste and consume, to know more. He felt the slide of Sherlock’s tongue against his own and felt as well as heard the other man’s soft groan of pleasure. John answered with his own growl, and the gentle kiss was no longer enough. There were hands everywhere, bodies pressing together, mouths and tongues exploring the previously unknown. It was everything John had imagined, and nothing like he expected. There was a passion and sense of desperation behind the way they were kissing that stole his breath away and he pulled back. Sherlock began to press kisses along his cheek, along his jaw, down his neck. John’s fingers dug into the meaty part of Sherlock’s hips. 

“John, John.” He barely heard the soft litany Sherlock repeated against his skin, his name a soft exhale between kisses. 

“Sherlock.” He pulled back, his hands traveling back up to Sherlock’s face, thumbs tracing cheekbones and down his cheek and jaw. He gazed into the iridescent eyes that were riveted onto his own, reading everything in them that he never truly allowed himself to hope he would see there. Trust, friendship, loyalty. Those he knew he would see. But hope? Adoration? Love? Those were new and he felt the knot that he didn’t know was in his chest break loose and spread warmth through his body. 

Sherlock closed his eyes as he leaned down and gently pressed his forehead against John’s. They were still, breathing each other in as they sorted through their emotions, coming to understanding with the shift that was happening between them. Both hearts racing in their chests as a physical testimony to their emotional confessions. John felt Sherlock’s chest expand as he took a breath to speak. “Yes, John. I meant what I said that day.”

John felt like the sun outside had made its way into his body, scorching his entire being as those simple but life defining words washed over him. He couldn’t stop the burning behind his eyes or the smile he felt pulling at his mouth. He let out a shaky breath and a half-chuckle, half-sob. “I love you.”

He saw his own sentiment reflected like a mirror in Sherlock’s expression. Unspoken between them was all the fires they had walked through to get to this point. The hurt, the suffering, the abandonment they had both felt like thorns digging incessantly into their skin and heart and minds. There would be time to discuss it all. To apologize. And they would. God knows they had so many things to say and make amends for. 

Right now, in this moment, the words could wait. They met in the middle, mouths coming together with sighs as hands roamed, touched, trailing over skin now aflame with possibilities. 

The future bloomed out before them and they no longer looked at it through the lens of walking alone, but of walking with the one who held the others heart in their hands.


End file.
